


cause I feel like bustin' loose (and I feel like touchin' you)

by sycamoretrees



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Edmonton Oilers, Hand Jobs, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretrees/pseuds/sycamoretrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jordan feels Sam shift next to him, hears little rustling movements he can’t pin down. He turns to look, and Sam is – is <i>nuzzling</i> Taylor's neck, his lips catching on the tanned skin and sliding over tendons. Which is not – usual, he’s pretty sure, and, and Taylor is <i>letting</i> him, which is also kind of confusing for Jordan. He hasn’t seen Taylor let a dude nuzzle him before. It’s a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cause I feel like bustin' loose (and I feel like touchin' you)

**Author's Note:**

> So, you know, sometimes you want to be Proust and sometimes you want to be... Proust's much less intellectual friend who talks about boners.
> 
> Many thanks to hanet for her stirling beta work; to Liz for her encouragement and reminding me what a fistbump was called; and to Des, who talked through the original idea with me 9 months ago, when the idea was mostly to write about Jordan Eberle's hands and Taylor Hall's mouth, and for glory that is 'the Crease Greaser'.
> 
> Title from Hot in Herre (the excellent cover version by Jenny Owen Youngs).

Jordan fucking loves this couch right now. He’s had hot stone massages and Jacuzzi blowjobs that didn’t feel as good as this couch does, which is weird because he sits on this couch a lot and he doesn’t remember it being blowjob-comfortable. Maybe Hallsy flipped the cushions (beauty). He’s thinking about getting a glass of water, in a kind of vague, distant, hopefully-someone-else-will-do-it-for-me way. It’s not that he couldn't stand up, he totally could, but his limbs are loose and heavy, the buzz of alcohol pumping through his system, and it's enough just to sink down into the cushions and zone out. 

It was bone-cold outside; Taylor had taken his time paying the cab driver, and Jordan was genuinely concerned that his ears might fall off. Before that the bar had been hot and sticky, all that energy and excitement crammed into one small space, and sweat had prickled between his shoulder blades and at the base of his spine. He’d been pressed up against strange bodies all night, shouldering his way through the packed crowds. His clothes still smell like other people's perfume. The fancy whiskey Sam insisted they drink has settled warmly in the pit of his stomach, glowing golden and syrupy from the inside. It feels like he swallowed a lava lamp, Jordan thinks, mentally giggling.

Sam himself is slumped against his left side, because Sam doesn't understand the concept of personal space when he's buzzed, and he’d collapsed between Jordan and Taylor in their regular couch spots, even though said couch spots are adjacent and there isn’t really room for a two hundred-pound hockey player in the middle. Whatever. He’s getting away with it because no one has the energy to get into an argument; and it’s not horrible, actually. It’s kind of nice. Comfortable. Like the couch. And Jordan works hard and he deserves nice things, right? Nice comfortable things, like the cool leather against the back of his neck, and Sam breathing steadily against him, and how his shirt feels stretching over his skin.

Jordan feels Sam shift next to him, hears little rustling movements he can’t pin down. He turns to look, and Sam is – is _nuzzling_ Taylor's neck, his lips catching on the tanned skin and sliding over tendons. Which is not – usual, he’s pretty sure, and, and Taylor is _letting_ him, which is also kind of confusing for Jordan. He hasn’t seen Taylor let a dude nuzzle him before. It’s a new one. He briefly wonders if Taylor's actually fallen asleep – he talks big about being a heavyweight but Jordan has found him snoring in bars on several occasions, and taxi rides home should really be known as ‘nap time’ - but then his eyelids flicker when Sam's mouth brushes over his jaw, and his tongue darts across his lips. So yeah, Taylor and Sam are both apparently cognizant and on board with the whole nuzzling thing, which is... fine, then. Apparently. And the thing is, it’s like Jordan’s brain is _thinking_ about freaking out, but it’s just – not. Which Jordan is actually grateful for, because freaking out would probably require effort and words and possibly even standing up, and that’s really not where Jordan’s at right now, so... Like, whatever. OK.

Maybe they can sense Jordan’s tacit OK-ness, because Taylor turns his head, just dips it slightly to his right, and his lips brush against Sam's. It's so brief and so soft that they could laugh it off, definitely, like it's not even a thing - but then Taylor turns a little more, and Sam angles upward, and yeah, _that_ is definitely a thing. They’re kissing how Jordan would kiss right now, slow and easy, flowing like honey. He’s so close he can see Sam’s tongue sliding into Taylor’s mouth, twisting behind his teeth, can see when Taylor sucks gently on Sam’s bottom lip. Sam’s breath hitches, and Jordan’s does too, like it’s his mouth, like it’s him being kissed. The whiskey left his lips tingly hot, and the cold made them raw and dry; he wonders how it would feel to have Taylor’s tongue on them now. 

He’s been leaning forward without realising, dumbly trying to get closer, and he has to throw out a hand to catch himself before he topples over. It lands on denim, firm muscle underneath; he’s not really looking, can’t stop watching them, but he tries to move so he’s leaning on the couch instead of Sam’s thigh, sliding his hand forward blindly, and – oh. _Oh_. OK, that’s, that’s not the couch, that’s – Jordan grunts and moves to pull his hand back, because that’s not what he’d been aiming for, that’s a whole world of things Jordan Eberle hasn’t planned for, but Sam fucking _grabs_ his wrist when he does, pressing it back down to his jeans. He’s hard, or getting there; hard from kissing Taylor, _fuck_. Jordan’s fingers curl over the line of Sam’s dick, without Jordan even telling them to do that, and Sam spreads his thighs wider. 

Jordan's kind of... like, yeah, he can go with that. The room spins a bit when he moves too fast, but he's hanging on to some details pretty well, like how wet and shiny Taylor's lips are, or how hot Sam is through his jeans, or how he can hear them kissing so fucking clearly, like it's amplified, the slick slide of Sam's tongue and the noises Taylor's making in the back of his throat, soft, like he can't help it. When Taylor stops he's panting and his eyes are blown wide, looking at Jordan a little helplessly while Sam scrapes his teeth over Taylor's jaw. His fingers are all bunched up in Sam's shirt, and Jordan suddenly wants to be more involved, he's definitely not being a team player right now, he needs to get in there and – and get some shit _done_.

‘Ebs,’ Taylor says, punch-drunk. His voice is hoarse and needy, and Jordan wonders if he sounds that fucked up too; if he’ll sound like that in thirty seconds, in five minutes. He swallows, hard.

‘Yeah, OK,’ he says, nodding. ‘Yeah.’

Maybe this is really normal, you know, maybe this isn’t kind of... odd for anyone who isn’t him; maybe this happens all the time and Jordan’s just somehow fallen through the cracks. Because, like, this has _not_ happened to Jordan before. He would definitely remember. Not that he hasn’t been ass-face wasted and made some questionable decisions – he is a hockey player, and a 22 year old, and a dude (and there are some photos that should never have seen the light of day, and he’s going to shave off Kaner’s eyebrows the next time he sees him) – but making out with his male teammates slash friends slash douchebag idiots? Yeah, no, that’s probably not something you just forget, even after six Jagerbombs and a startlingly pink beverage Kaner referred to as ‘The Crease Greaser’. Taylor doesn’t look all that freaked out by it, but then Taylor’s drunk modes are cuddly or belligerent. And who the fuck knows with Sam, for real. He’s bros with Kaner, that means literally anything is possible. So maybe he’s the only one who’s lost here, and fuck that, Jordan’s not going to let everyone else have drunk not-freaking-out fun without him. 

Apparently he’s been sitting there thinking for longer than is normal, even for a drunk person, because the faces staring at him are impatient (Sam) and grumpy (Taylor). He’s pretty much winging it when he leans forward and tips his face up to meet Sam’s; the change in position makes the heel of his hand grind down onto Sam’s dick again, and he feels Sam’s huff of breath roll damply along his cheek. He does it again, on purpose this time, and Sam grunts. Yeah, Jordan can do this.

‘Come on,’ Taylor says, but he’s still a little of out of breath so he sounds horny instead of demanding. ‘Keep going.’

‘Shut up, Hallsy,’ Sam replies absently, and kisses Jordan.

Sam’s mouth is hot and wet, and he doesn’t fuck around with the niceties, pushy and insistent in a way that leaves Jordan a little dizzy. It’s good, it’s really fucking good, and it’s keeping Jordan from thinking too hard about whether kissing the dude whose dick you’re groping makes the groping more or less weird. Sam’s stubble rasps over his skin, and fuck, Jordan’s totally going to get beard burn. That’s going to suck. Maybe he won’t shave for a while and say he’s trying out a whole beard thing himself. He’s still thinking about that, getting used to the tingling heat, when Taylor comes out of fucking nowhere, literally pushing Sam back against the couch to get him out of the way, and launches himself at Jordan’s face. It actually hurts, Jordan’s lips trapped against his teeth, but Taylor backs off for long enough to reposition, sliding his hand into Jordan’s hair and pressing his thumb against his jaw. He meets Jordan’s gaze, just looking at him, and it makes Jordan feel hot and self-conscious. It’s almost a relief when Taylor kisses him again. He takes his time, moving so slowly that it drives Jordan crazy; his tongue feels good on Jordan’s lips, even better than Jordan had thought, and the thumb rubbing little circles just in front of his ear is really stupidly distracting. Jordan isn’t usually this easy, not for just kissing, but he doesn’t quite manage to hold back a groan when Taylor bites his bottom lip. 

‘That’s hot,’ Sam mutters quietly. 

Before he can stop himself Jordan’s thinking ‘yeah, it really fucking is’. But seriously, Sam needs to shut up, because he’s thrusting his hips up minutely against Jordan’s palm, and maybe Jordan isn’t firing on all cylinders but he thinks they can probably do better than that.

Jordan hasn’t made out with dudes before but he thinks maybe it’s pretty much the same as with girls, minus the boobs (bummer), plus extra hair and grunting (the grunting thing is kind of a guess but he’d seen some gay porn once and grunting seemed to be, like, a fairly central part of the exercise). And when Jordan’s making out with girls he’s good at taking the lead, making the next move - unhook the bra, take off his shirt, hand down the pants, whatever. That’s one of his strengths. So it’s good, what they’re doing, Taylor kissing him breathless and scratching his fingers through Jordan’s hair, like, it’s really, really _good_ – Taylor’s fingers are sending little tingling shivers through Jordan’s nerves, and Jordan knows he’s shifting in his seat, rocking with the push-pull of Taylor’s movements, of his _tongue_. It’s – shit, OK, it’s good, but Jordan needs to make something happen. 

He’s is almost surprised when the thought takes shape in his mind, but then it’s there and it stays: he really wants to see Sam come. Fuck, how did this... was it the whiskey? Maybe this is what whiskey does to him, makes him want to make out with his friends. Because he’s inescapably turned on right now, it’s knotting low in his belly and making him bold and dumb. He fumbles at Sam’s zipper, his fingers clumsy and his focus still on Taylor, until Sam loses patience and tugs open his jeans himself, wriggling around to push his boxers down just enough to get his dick out, and then – and then Sam’s dick is there, with them, in the room. Well, it’s always been there, obviously, Jordan laughs to himself a little hysterically, but now it’s really, really _there_ , hard and flushed red against the pale skin of Sam’s belly, and it’s Sam’s fucking dick, and Jordan can’t stop staring. His mouth is hanging open and he’s sure he looks like an idiot, but when he glances up Sam’s chewing on his lip and watching him too. 

‘Can I,’ Jordan starts to say before his brain catches up with his mouth, _shut the hell up Jordan_ , not even sure what he’s asking to do, but Sam’s nodding frantically and saying ‘Yeah, fuck, obviously’ so Jordan has to do something, right? He’s basically locked himself into that deal, and he’s kind of already crossed whatever line there might have been here (probably more than crossed it, his brain supplies helpfully, probably now quite far away from the line and gaining speed) so really, he may as well just...

Someone groans when he slides his fingers around Sam’s dick, and it was probably Sam but honestly it might have been Jordan, and Taylor’s practically vibrating with barely-contained energy next to him, so it’s pretty much open season right now. Sam’s dick feels like Jordan’s dick, basically, except completely fucking different because it’s _not Jordan’s dick_ , and all Jordan has going through his head right now is a running stream of exclamation marks. Maybe this is an important moment, the first dick you touch that isn’t yours. Like the first time you tie your shoes, or your bar mitzvah, shit, maybe Jordan is now officially a man. A man who touches other men’s dicks.

‘Ebs, just – come _on_ ,’ Sam mutters, and the catch in his voice snaps Jordan out of it. He glances apologetically up at Sam, and then tightens his grip again, hearing his tight exhale. He’s seen Sam naked before, obviously, no secrets among teammates, brothers in arms, eyes above the waist etcetera, no surprises there (like he’d pulled down Sam’s pants to find him completely waxed or with an extra ball or something) but this is... he’s curious. He’s holding his breath when he slides his hand up, when he tries rubbing the pad of his thumb under the head and waits for Sam’s ‘ _ah_ ’ before he does it again. He strokes over the unfamiliar skin, hot and smooth, traces the vein underneath with his fingertips, twisting over the head like he likes it when he’s touching himself, until Sam hisses.

‘ _Aah_ , too dry, dude, you gotta...’ and fuck knows where Jordan finds the nerve to do it but he brings up his hand and spits into his palm like he does this all the time. When he reaches back Sam groans, his dick sliding wetly into Jordan’s grip, and it’s better, Jordan can feel it’s better. He speeds up, spitting again so everything’s slick and he can jerk Sam off properly, fast and tight. Sam’s eyes are shut but his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the back of the sofa, arms stretched out wide behind Jordan and Taylor; his mouth is open and his breathing is rough, and Jordan’s so fucking into this he can’t believe it.

He’s getting into a rhythm, starting to wonder how long Sam takes to come, whether he’s faster when he’s drunk, when Taylor blinks out of whatever voyeuristic stupor he’s been in. 

‘Hey, hold on a sec,’ he says, and OK, Jordan thinks, this is it. Someone’s finally come to their senses and realised that this kind of thing just doesn’t happen. _We’re done here_. He’s actually disappointed – his dick is pretty disappointed in particular, but other bits of him too, the brain bit. 

‘No, what’re you – don’t _stop_ ,’ Sam says, sounding genuinely outraged, ‘you _fucker_.’ 

Jordan has indeed stopped moving, although he realises he hasn’t actually taken his hand away, still loosely circled around the base of Sam’s dick. Before he can let go and maybe stand up and do some heterosexual breathing exercises, or something, Taylor stills his hand and rolls his eyes at Sam.

‘Calm your tits, Gags, I just want to try something.’ Taylor gets that determined look on his face, the one he gets in penalty shootouts and really vicious games of Guitar Hero, and gets one knee underneath himself so he can bend down to Sam’s lap. _Shit just got real_ says the stupid voice in Jordan’s head that doesn’t know when to shut up, because the rest of his thoughts have completely flat-lined, because _fuck_. Taylor’s eyes are fixed on Sam’s dick, like he’s working out the plays or something, and Jordan suddenly really wants to know – Taylor’s never _said_ , but –

‘Have you ever done this before?’

Taylor looks up defensively. ‘You’d know if I had, idiot.’

Jordan finds that he’s confusingly reassured by that. ‘No, yeah, I know, I didn’t mean – I was just -'

‘If you bite my dick I will knee you in the face,’ Sam interrupts, and OK, maybe now is not the time for a ‘you’re my best friend, dude, I know you’d tell me anything’ heart-to-heart.

Taylor flips him off without looking up, and Jordan has to give him credit, because he doesn’t pause or take baby steps, just opens up and sinks down over Sam’s dick like it’s a popsicle. Sam lets out a long, harsh breath, his arm shooting down to grip Jordan’s knee. Jordan’s almost forgotten that he’s still holding Sam’s dick until he feels Taylor’s warm breath over his fingers, and he’s never stayed so still, so completely motionless, in his entire life. Taylor pulls off, long and slow; when the wet tip of Sam’s dick finally slides out of his mouth he licks his lips, and that’s fucking _it_ , Jordan’s been hard in his pants since the beginning of fucking time and it’s too much. He reaches down with his free hand, thumbs open the button of his pants and tugs fabric out of the way until he can grab himself, _finally_.

‘Yeah, fuckin’ – do it,’ Sam’s saying, Sam who’s apparently opened his eyes now and is staring straight at Jordan. Staring at him and telling him to jerk off, Jesus _Christ_. And it totally works, because Jordan’s stroking his dick and staring right back at Sam, and Taylor slides back down over Sam until his lips almost touch Jordan’s fingers, and Jordan might actually die.

It’s kind of weird, but touching himself really makes Jordan chill on this whole thing. Now that he’s, you know, personally invested in proceedings it feels more like sex and less like some exercise in team bonding that’s got _amazingly_ out of control. He loves jerking off drunk, how the pleasure gets hazy and diffuse. This is just jerking off drunk with a little more audience participation, and now that he’s less desperate, the ache in his balls fading, it’s starting to feel – fun.

He guesses Sam got to the fun stage quite a while ago, because he's not even trying to hold back his little whines and moans when Taylor does something good, which again Jordan is currently shameless enough to admit is doing it for him too. He tightens his grip on Sam’s dick, starts inching up and down in counterpoint to the hand on his own, but slower, slow as he can, not shifting more than an inch from the base. Sam pants out a low ‘oh, f – _fuck_ ’, hips twitching under Jordan’s hand. Jordan hasn’t really _looked_ yet, so he does, and – and _motherfucker_ , it’s fucking obscene. Taylor’s pulled back some, given Jordan more room, and he’s mouthing wetly at the head, pink tongue flashing between his lips as he licks over and around. Sam’s dick is shiny from Taylor’s mouth, and Jordan’s fingers are pale against it, slick red like Taylor’s lips. It’s like porn, it’s _better_ than porn, and Jordan has to squeeze himself tightly not to come from just the sight of it. Taylor glances up then, catches his eye, and he looks so fucking smug that Jordan wants to slap him, or at least beat him at something (because yeah, Mr Number 1 Draft Pick, Jordan can hit the crossbar dead-on before you _and_ he knows how to use the dishwasher, so who’s the heartthrob wonder-boy now?).

‘Bet you can’t swallow,’ Jordan says, surprising himself with the waver in his voice. He’s kidding, mostly, it’s just fun to goad Taylor, but Taylor pulls off and looks at him, his mouth all swollen and sloppy with spit. 

‘Are you _kidding_ me?’ Sam groans, burying his face in his hands. ‘Stop _stopping_.’

Taylor ignores him, and smirks right back at Jordan. ‘Like fuck I can’t,’ he says, because he’s a cocky little shit, and immediately sinks back down on Sam’s dick until his lips meet Jordan’s fist.

Sam lets out a stream of breathless curses that Jordan would be echoing if he could hang on to a coherent thought for a second. Taylor’s cheeks are hollowing as he sucks, and he’s making it messy, wet, spit pooling at Jordan’s fingers; Jordan squeezes, slick skin sliding over slick skin, and Sam runs his left hand in stutters over Taylor’s bobbing head, grabbing at his hair and backing off immediately, like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do. Jordan’s jerking off in earnest, only his alcohol-loose buzz keeping him from losing it, and then – 

And then Taylor hums, quiet and cocky and satisfied, and Sam’s tugging at Taylor’s hair and gasping ‘I’m gonna – _fuck_ , Hallsy, I’m gonna come –', and Taylor doesn’t move, doesn’t let up – 

And Sam’s groaning and bucking up into Taylor’s slack mouth, and Taylor’s swallowing but he can’t get all of it, Sam’s come dripping down his cock and running hot over Jordan’s wet fingers –

And Taylor trails down Sam’s dick, lips sucking open kisses on his way, and his soft tongue licks at Jordan’s fingers to clean up what he missed – 

And he looks up at Jordan, his eyes dazed and slow and heavy, a trail of Sam’s come shining white against his pink, pink lips, so fucking _slutty_ –

And _that’s_ when Jordan comes, hard and sharp and fucking unexpected, punching through his drunken haze until all he can feel is tight, roaring pleasure and his heart pounding in his chest.

It takes Jordan a while to compose himself, trying to remember what normal breathing feels like. His eyes are shut because it’s all too much, he’s hit some kind of hot sex sensory input ceiling and if he adds anything else right now he’s going to pass out.

‘Holy _shit_ ,’ Sam breathes next to him, with a depth of feeling Jordan can really relate to. ‘You fucking overachiever.’

‘Yeah,’ Taylor says, and when Jordan finally opens his eyes Taylor’s looking so smug he can practically see his obnoxious mental fist-pump.

Jordan breathes some more, clenching and unclenching his hands to draw out some of the tension. He feels sticky, used, and really, really, _ridiculously_ relaxed.

‘What about me, you assholes?’ Taylor snaps, and oh yeah, right. There’re three dicks on this dancefloor. Even if Taylor whining ‘I did you, fucker, you can’t just –' makes Jordan want to smother him with a pillow more than get him off, but whatever, Jordan can be the bigger person. He can’t do anything reaching over Sam, though, so he zips his jeans back up, slides off the couch (reluctantly, because his love for this couch is now so profound that he might have to legally marry it) and knee-walks until he’s in front of Taylor. Taylor’s palming his jeans and biting his swollen lower lip, and OK, maybe Jordan’s a little interested in this. 

‘Well, let go then, idiot,’ Jordan says, batting Taylor’s hands away with his own. Taylor’s dick is pressed so hard against the zipper of his jeans that it must hurt, and Taylor hisses when Jordan unzips him, pulls him out. It’s the second dick he’s touched tonight that isn’t his, and briefly he marvels at what’s happened to his life in the last five hours. Only briefly, though, because Taylor is heavy in his hand, and he’s making these breathy noises, high up in his throat. He sounds desperate already. The head of his dick is shining with precome, and Jordan’s hand is still wet from Sam’s come and Taylor’s own spit, making slick, messy sounds as he jacks Taylor’s dick. 

‘Getting good at that, Ebs,’ Sam says, so apparently he’s come back to life. It’s almost chirping but he still sounds way too fucked out to pull it off, and the idea that he’s being sincere is slightly more than Jordan can process.

‘Fuck off, Gags. Don’t see you trying to help,’ he replies, using the pause to rub at Taylor’s balls. Taylor gasps, so he does it again. Yeah, well, maybe he _is_ improving. Whatever, Sam’s just afraid of talent.

Jordan didn’t walk into this with a game-plan. He didn’t walk into this at all, really, he was just walking in the general area until Sam tripped him up with his dick, but he’s here now. It’s not the time to be slacking off. Plus there’s no way he’s letting Taylor get one up on him, not at NHL 14 and not at gay sex. 

He leans forward and licks, hesitantly, at Taylor’s dick; Taylor’s thick thighs jerk, spreading apart just enough that Jordan notices. Reflex blowjob reaction, he guesses, but Jordan does well with positive reinforcement and it helps, clears away some of his doubt. He licks again, over the head, and Taylor’s breath stutters; he doesn’t mean to think about it but he’s realising that Taylor tastes pretty much the same as he does (anyone who says they haven’t done some investigative, er, _exploration_ down there is straight up lying, as Kaner roared cheerfully into his ear one night for reasons Jordan can no longer remember, or has at least chosen to block out for his emotional wellbeing). He decides to try Taylor’s move, because Taylor made it look pretty do-able, so Jordan hikes himself up a little to get a better angle, and does his level best to suck Taylor down in one go. It’s really awesome, for about five seconds. Then he tries to breathe and swallow and suck all at the same time, and he makes a ludicrous gagging sound which he’s suddenly ashamed to have ever found hot in porn, and has to pull off to cough (sexily) until he’s not choking on his own spit any more. 

He feels like an awkward teenager again, fumbling around inside his girlfriend’s panties to find where his fingers are actually supposed to _go_ – but Taylor's squirming, biting his lips and making some really dumb faces, and Jordan might be new at this but he's pretty sure he's reading the signs right. He tightens his grip on Taylor’s cock, speeds up a little, twisting at the head. Taylor groans and says, all in a rush, 'someone - I need someone to kiss me right now,' and Jordan's rhythm falters a little because shit, that's – and Sam's saying 'seriously, Hallsy?’, but he’s leaning over and cupping Taylor’s jaw, Taylor’s mouth opening against his so _easily_. Taylor's making those noises again, the noises he apparently makes when he's kissing and turned on, which is something that Jordan knows now, and he's going to have to deal with that when he's either sober or a lot more drunk. Just as Jordan starts to maybe think about freaking out, Taylor's gasping into Sam’s mouth, moans catching high in his throat, and he comes all over Jordan's hand. Jordan strokes him through it, watching his face, waiting until Taylor hisses. He swipes his thumb over the head one more time, just because he can, and because Taylor's hips jerk and Taylor swears at him. Whatever, they're best friends, that means they probably get a pass on that kind of thing.

Taylor’s just sitting there, eyes closed, getting his breathing back under control. Jordan thinks he can see little shudders running through him every now and then, and Jordan came, like, five minutes ago but that’s still really fucking hot. His legs are starting to cramp up though, and there’s probably a limit to how long he can kneel in front of his own couch before it starts being really weird. He’s already going to have some pretty vivid images to shut down any time they have people over, or he’s calling his mom, or pretty much any activity where a memory-boner wouldn’t be helpful.

‘You need someone to kiss you to get off?’ Sam has never sounded more delighted. ‘Wow, Hallsy, that’s really sweet.’

‘Oh, fuck _off_ ,’ says Taylor, still a little dazed. ‘You just came in my mouth, you don’t get to judge me right now.’ 

It’s a compelling point, really, and trust Taylor to be argumentative this soon after sex. 

***

It should be weirder, afterwards, than it actually turns out to be. After a drowsy round of slightly sticky fist-bumps, Jordan and Taylor stumble into their respective bedrooms and Sam apparently finds a bit of the couch that isn’t horrifying to sleep on, and Jordan wakes to a weirdly unremarkable morning, too. Taylor says the usual dumb shit about Jordan’s coffee being too weak, and drinks it anyway, and Jordan threatens to Snapchat Taylor’s heinous bed hair, and Sam tells them both to shut up while he caffeinates away his hangover. Everything just continues as normal, as if cleaning their couch magically erased the events that led to the various gross stains ending up there. 

Jordan starts to wonder if the NHLPA sent out some sort of memo or instruction manual on fooling around with your teammates that he didn’t get to see; Sam seems entirely unaffected, and Taylor is doing his normal post-hook-up thing of being slightly less bitchy than normal, which usually lasts for a couple of days before he gets horny again and demands they go out so he can ‘bang hot chicks, Ebs, I just wanna bang hot chicks!’ (Jordan is going to stop letting him watch movies, it validates his grossness). Jordan’s not upset or anything, but it seems like something they should talk about. Address the issue. It’s what responsible teammates with leadership qualities would do. 

He waits until the next time they’re all hanging out, sacked out on their couch catching up on Breaking Bad. Hallsy keeps pointing out scientific inaccuracies that Jordan’s 100% confident he’s pulled out of his ass, and Sam keeps whispering Malcolm in the Middle quotes at dramatic moments, and then the episode ends and they all just sit there and Jordan is taking this in hand.

‘So,’ he says, authoritatively. Then he can’t think of what to say next, which probably ruins the authoritative vibe.

The word hangs in the silence for a bit. Jordan tries desperately to remember his very clear plan for how he was going to broach this, but at some point between now and last night it seems that whole area of his brain has been replaced by a picture of a puppy wearing sunglasses. It’s cute, but it’s not helping him talk about blowjobs. 

‘Yeah, Ebs, good talk,’ Hallsy says. Sam slaps the back of his head. 

‘So, the other night was...’ Jordan says, and trails off when he tries to choose a word. The puppy’s back.

‘Fun?’ Sam offers. ‘Hot?’

‘Not usually how our nights turn out,’ Jordan finishes. ‘Like, am I the only one that that’s never happened to before?’

‘Nope, new for me,’ Hallsy says, and Sam grunts in agreement.

‘And it’s just... cool with you guys?’

‘I mean, I’m not making weepy phone calls to my mom and getting rainbows tattooed on my ass,’ says Sam, his breathtaking level of social sensitivity temporarily blowing Jordan’s mind, ‘but yeah, sure, it’s cool.’ 

Taylor just shrugs. ‘Like, I got to come, dude.’

Jordan stares at him until he shrugs again, because apparently that qualifies as an answer.

‘So it’s all no big deal and we’re just gonna go about our business like normal?’ Jordan asks incredulously.

‘Well, yeah.’ Sam and Taylor are both shrugging now, and Jordan’s starting to hate them both.

Jordan sits and thinks about that. The conclusion he eventually reaches is: fuck it.

‘OK then,’ he says. ‘Let’s get takeout.’


End file.
